


Solace

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [30]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family Feels, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos visits his mother's grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Porthos wakes up at three in the morning. He’s got a headache, remembers snatches of a dream, silent, suffocating and colourless. It’s always the same dream, has come back to him once every year for the last decade or so. He doesn’t pay any heed to it. Instead he extricates himself from Aramis’ clinging embrace, careful not to wake him, and gets up.

It is a little early, maybe, but he knows that he cannot get back to sleep. Not today, not after that dream. He never could. He has somewhere to be anyway.

The bedside rug is soft under his feet, but the hardwood floor is cold. Behind him Aramis mumbles in his sleep and pulls the comforter tighter around himself. Porthos collects his clothes in darkness and takes them with him to the bathroom, takes a shower with the lights off.

When he approaches the kitchen ten minutes later Athos is already there - has fixed him a thermos of tea. “I wish you would allow me to accompany you.”

Despite his words he is not dressed, not ready to go out, and since Porthos knows that he doesn’t have to fight for this, he doesn’t. “Nah,” he merely says, blinking against the dimmed kitchen light. “I need to do this alone, Athos. You know that.”

“I know that you _want_ to do this alone,” Athos replies quietly. “So I let you.” He bites his lip, as if he’s trying to hold something back - says it anyway. “Did you tell Aramis?”

Porthos shakes his head, looks down at the floor. “I didn’t know how.” The pained understanding in Athos’ eyes hurts Porthos the same way it always does, and he musters a little smile, leaning in. “You know I’ll feel better by the time I come back home.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “You usually do.” He reaches up, takes Porthos’ face between his hands, rises up into a kiss. “I love you,” he says softly. He has said it many times, even before they allowed their friendship to change, but it still eases the weight pushing down on Porthos, still makes him feel warm inside.

“I know,” he murmurs back, pulling Athos in for a proper hug. “Sorry to be such a downer.” He can feel the tears pushing from behind his eyes, and he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he remembers. He doesn’t. He never has. All things considered he has reason to be grateful - to be happy. “I have to go,” he gets out, releases Athos from his arms and brings some distance between them. “I don’t wanna be late for work.”

Athos just nods. When Porthos first started to do this Athos had tried to accompany him, to make him take the day off. He has learned to keep his peace by now. Thus Porthos is allowed to dress himself in silence. He remembers to take the thermos and an old blanket with him before venturing out the door, and takes the dark staircase down into the lobby instead of the elevator. It is a cold, uncomfortable morning, not quite raining, but not dry either. Porthos pulls his hood up before he crosses the street, jumps the hedge into the park, and makes his way to the bus-stop by the west-entrance. The bus is on time and Porthos gets in, is the only passenger beside a pale young woman who looks like she’s just coming off her night-shift, whatever that may be. They ride the bus in silence for some minutes, and Porthos thanks the driver when he drops him off at the cemetery.

The bus didn’t take him very far, but still far enough for the slightest change in climate. The cemetery is close to the river, and the water is sending up thick rivulets of fog to meet the freezing drizzle from above - creates an atmosphere of such melancholy ghastliness that Porthos fails to contain a grim smile. He picks his way through the all-encompassing mist, gets lost on the extensive grounds for a minute or two and finally comes upon the headstone he’d set out for.

“Hello, Mom,” he says, his voice rough, while the tears press ever harder at the back of his eyes. So he lets them go. “Happy Birthday.”

He puts his blanket on the cold wet ground and sits down on it, legs crossed, holds out his thermos to the headstone. “Athos gave me this. You remember him, yeah? I bet he put some extra honey in there, just for me. He doesn’t drink his tea with honey, you see. Only puts some in because he knows I like it.”

He falls silent for a moment, trying to make out his mother’s name on the grey slab of stone, but it’s still too dark. She’d walked out on the street, suddenly, right in front of a car. The driver was old, and his reflexes not up to the task, and he killed her on impact. He also paid for her headstone, once he came out of the hospital; at least that’s what the Captain told Porthos. Because there wasn’t anyone else to pay for the funeral. Her parents were dead, and Porthos’ father -

Well. He was untraceable at the time. A blank space on Porthos’ birth certificate. The driver is dead now, just like his Mom; he died when Porthos was seven, so it doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. Porthos takes a deep breath, doesn’t bother to wipe the tears off his cheeks. “Sorry I didn’t bring you any flowers. They just wouldn’t last in this kind of weather.”

He sniffs. “So, I got somethin’ kind of important to tell you.” He looks up at the sky for a moment, gets a face full of drizzle for his efforts. “Aramis and I - you know him, right, I told you about him last year - we’re gettin’ very serious. I really think he’s the … well, not _the one_. Not really that.” He clears his throat. “Cause, you know - Athos and I we … he started kissin’ me, recently. And Aramis, too. I mean, he’s kissin’ us both.”

He unscrews the thermos, pours a few mouthfuls of tea into the cap, and sits with it between his hands without saying anything for a long moment. The hush of the cemetery feels heavy, like a wet blanket, and the only sound piercing the mist comes from an enraged magpie, blustering somewhere to the left of the grave. “I love ‘em both,” Porthos says quietly, once the angry bird has flown off. He’s no longer crying. “More than anythin’. So you … you don’t have to worry about me, you see. I mean, not that you ever had to do that, ‘cause I had it good, always. I was lucky.”

It’s the truth. He knows that. He just wishes he could remember her face - what it really looked like. But more than that he wishes that he knew what her voice sounded like. He was not quite three years old when she died, and all he has left of her is a faded picture … and her smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn is streaking the sky with tints of pink when Porthos gets to the orphanage. It’s no longer drizzling; the clouds are breaking up and moving on, and there’s even a hint of sunlight touching his face; but thanks to sitting on the ground for close to an hour he is cold through and through, and his jeans are uncomfortably damp. He’s a little early for work, but the kids are already up and about when he steps inside the old building, and so is Flea.

She takes one look at him before she advances and pulls him down into a hug - just to recoil with a hiss. “Jesus on a cracker, Porthos, you’re freezing!”

“I am a little cold,” he admits.

She shakes herself and rubs her arms. “Come upstairs, get some dry clothes.”

He shrugs, too exhausted to care. “I don’t need em.”

“Yes,” she insists, “you do. Now come along.” She grabs him by the elbow and pulls him up the big staircase, up to the second landing, containing her and Charon’s rooms, and the nursery. Never one to mind the conventions she personally wrestles him out of his hoodie, before turning away to fish one of Charon’s hand-knitted sweaters out of a chest of drawers. It’s soft and even a little warm, the colour a dark blue, with little stars in the pattern. Porthos puts it on before shoving down his jeans, just when Charon steps into the room.

“What’s going on?” he asks, looking befuddled. Porthos can’t blame him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for that pair of jeans you hadn’t adjusted yet,” Flea explains impatiently, halfway into the wardrobe. “Where did you put that?”

Charon looks at Porthos, doesn’t really seem to mind the fact that his jeans are around his ankles right now. So Porthos takes them off all the way, shakes them out. Then he contemplates his socks. They’re not precisely dry either.

“Oh fuck I forgot,” Charon mutters, startling Porthos out of his reverie. He starts forward, throws his arms around Porthos and pulls him in. “I am so sorry, brother.” Porthos has to close his eyes, fighting tears yet again. Charon seems to be aware, only holds him tighter - brushes his cheek to Porthos’ the way he did when they were kids. “You’re all cold. How long did you sit with her?”

“About an hour,” Porthos mumbles, trying not to relax into the hug too much … trying not to cry.

“I’m going to make you tea,” Charon promises, stroking his hands over Porthos’ back. “The pants are in the nursery, Flea. I wanted to take them in today.”

Flea groans and emerges from the wardrobe, marches out of the room.

Porthos sighs. “You really don’t need to -”

“Oh, shut up,” Charon whispers, reaching up to stroke his hand over Porthos’ head. “You know you’d do the same thing for us - have done it, even. Repeatedly.” He gently pinches Porthos’ ear. “You promised to try and get better at letting others take care of you for a change - I hope you haven’t forgotten.” Flea reappears with the elusive pair of jeans, relieving Porthos of the necessity to answer. Porthos puts them on, asks for a dry pair of socks while he’s at it. “No problem, I just finished a new pair for you,” Charon says, producing them from yet another drawer. They look decidedly like dragon-feet. Including talons. Porthos loves them a lot, and tells Charon as much. Charon just grins at him. “Knew you would.”

“There,” Flea observes once Porthos has put them on, “much better. Now come here.” She opens her arms for him, and Porthos comes; because resistance, with her, is futile. She’s warm and she smells like his childhood home, and he closes his eyes. Being with his siblings like this doesn’t make him miss his Mom any less; but it helps to soothe the ache - puts a bandage over his cracked ribs and keeps them in place, even when it hurts just to breathe. “Charon is making Mac and Cheese for lunch today,” Flea says into his ear. “And for dessert we’ll have chocolate pudding with vanilla sauce.” She sniffs. “It will make you feel better.”

It sounds like a well-enunciated command, and Porthos smiles, despite himself. “Yes, it will.”

She pats his butt. “Good. Now you can do me a favour and get Gwen dressed. Be warned: she’s a bit fussy this morning.”

As it turns out, Flea is a horrible liar. But then again Porthos has known that for years. When he steps into the nursery Gwen is standing up in her crib, reaching out her arms to him, smiling all over her little face.

“Good morning princess,” Porthos addresses her, rather aware of his dragon socks. “I’ve come to free you from your prison.” She squeals and claps her hands, and Porthos lifts her up, gets a very wet kiss when he takes her into his arms. “Someone has slept very well,” he observes.

Gwen does her best to strangle him in affirmation. He gives her a bath, just because he can, and because she loves it so much, wrangles her into a onesie with little owls on it and takes her down into the dining room. The older kids are in the middle of the usual lavish breakfast. They greet him with waves and cocoa-stained smiles, and he smiles back as best he can and sits down at the Captain’s right hand at the table, Gwen in his lap. “Good mornin’.”

“Good morning, kiddo,” the Captain replies thoughtfully, looking him over. “Has Athos appropriated so many of your clothes that you are reduced to stealing from Charon now?”

Porthos chuckles. “It hasn’t come to that yet, no.”

The Captain tilts his head, patiently waiting for Porthos to explain himself.

“I just got here a little worse for wear,” Porthos mumbles, too quiet for anyone but the Captain to understand him. “So Flea and Charon … took care of me.”

The Captain’s brows lift at that, and he nods, reaches out to brush his thumb over Gwen’s cheek. “I gather Charon gave you your anniversary gift a little early?”

Porthos blinks at him, and then he has to close his eyes, bites his lip. “He didn’t say -”

“Of course he didn’t,” the Captain says quietly, putting his hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “You know how he is. He doesn’t like to put his feelings into words.” There’s the hint of fond amusement in his voice when he continues. “He puts them into knitwear instead. And Flea … well. She has very unusual ways to convey her affection. I hope she didn’t give you any bruises.”

Porthos clears his throat, and when he opens his eyes the Captain is smiling at him. “I never knew such rascals as you three when you were little, you know.”

“I do,” Porthos says, managing his first real smile of the day. “You keep telling me.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You look sad,” Teddy observes from the place on Porthos’ left at the table, energetically colouring a dinosaur in his new book. They’re in the Quiet Room - the one for homework and reading and Hearing Yourself Think, as Flea calls it - and either Porthos is very obvious or Teddy has developed some very keen emotional instincts since he stopped pushing over the castle. Porthos turns his head to look at him, and Teddy looks back, his blue eyes very wide. “Are you sad?”

“A bit,” Porthos admits, looking away to apply a questionmark to a section of Peter’s maths homework. “Have you finished your alphabet?”

Teddy produces a sheet of paper with surprisingly neat handwriting and directs another disconcertingly penetrating gaze at Porthos. “Why are you sad?”

“Yes, why are you sad?” Peter chimes in from Porthos’ right, bending over his questioned result once more. “Did something happen?” His head snaps up suddenly, and his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Was it Aramis?”

Porthos grins at him, charmed despite himself. “Nah. Aramis is a lovely boyfriend - and so is Athos,” he adds when Peter’s mouth opens once more. “It’s just that -” he hesitates, bites his lip, and sighs. “It’s my Mom’s birthday, you know.”

Peter blinks at him, then his eyes cloud with sympathetic understanding; Teddy climbs on his chair, and gives him a hug. “I miss my Mom, too.”

“I know you do, buddy,” Porthos whispers, hugging him back.

Teddy gives him a singularly soft kiss on the cheek. “Do you want a chocolate bar? I still have one left from Christmas.”

Porthos chokes up quite horribly, but manages to contain his tears. “That’s very sweet of you, Teddy, but I’m still full from lunch.”

“You can have it, whenever you want it,” Teddy promises him solemnly, releasing Porthos from his embrace.

Porthos ruffles his hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies earnestly, sitting back down on his chair. “Do you want to colour in my book? The Captain says it helps with my e-mo-tio-nal balance.”

“It sure does,” Porthos murmurs, impressed by the evidence.

“Is the Captain your Dad?” Teddy asks then, distracting Porthos once more from Peter’s homework. “Cause I think he’s awesome, and so are you.”

Porthos clears his throat. “He’s as much my Dad as he is yours, Teddy.”

Teddy gives his dinosaur a pink cutie-mark and toenails and contemplates that answer for a moment. “My Dad is in prison,” he offers finally. “So the Captain can’t be my Dad.”

“But you can have more than one!” Peter pipes up suddenly. “I mean if Porthos and Athos and Aramis had a son, he’d have _three_ Dads!”

Teddy puts down his coloured pencil, and turns around on his chair, suddenly roused to excitement. “So the Captain’s my Dad?”

“If you want him to be,” Porthos replies. His first memories are all of the Captain, bandaging scraped knees, telling stories - teaching him how to read. He was always there, a bastion of safety and indulgent humour. He was always there. 

That is of course when the door opens and the man himself appears in its frame, carrying Gwen, while Annie is hanging from his back, her arms around his neck. “Mind if I join you? Flea is leading another dance-off in the other room, and I feel like the Retiring Dragon that Mars Man keeps singing about.”

Porthos grins up at him and reaches out to take Gwen off his hands. “The ladies don’t want to dance?”

Gwen babbles something unintelligible, while Annie gives up her stranglehold on the Captain and gracefully drops onto the table when he turns his back to it. “No, the Captain said he was going to tell you a story, and I want to hear that.”

Peter hastily relinquishes his homework to Porthos once more. “I’m sure it’s all good now!”

“Oh, are you?” the Captain smiles, taking a keen look at it over Porthos’ shoulder. “It seems to be in order,” he says eventually, while Annie flops down into a cross-legged sitting position on the table. “You are sure you didn’t arrive at the result by guessing again, Peter?”

Peter pouts a little. “No. That never works.”

“Glad you’ve finally come to that conclusion,” the Captain says, ruffling his hair before he straightens and comes to stand beside Porthos.

Porthos promptly addresses an expectant gaze at him, and he clears his throat, produces a little photo album from his back pocket. “I found this after breakfast this morning.”

“You mean you searched for it for hours,” Porthos deadpans, taking it from him. “I was wonderin’ where you’d vanished to.”

“I really have to start organizing the attic at some point,” the Captain says lightly, putting his hand on Porthos’ shoulder when he opens the leather-bound album. “You cannot imagine the treasures I found there.” Porthos, staring at a picture of himself in the Captain’s arms, cannot find the words to agree. “That was the day you came here.” The Captain’s voice is soft, and his hand on Porthos’ shoulder is both soothing and warm.

Porthos has never seen these pictures before. The Captain was so _young_ back then, younger than Porthos is now, and he’s holding Porthos like he’s his own, smiling at the camera like a proud Dad. All the pictures in the little album are of him and Porthos, sometimes with the addition of Flea and Charon, and one of them with Emilia de la Fère, holding Athos. It takes everything Porthos has in him not to pull the Captain into his arms and hug him to within an inch of his life.

“You were very handsome,” he manages eventually.

The Captain mock-glares at him. “What do you mean, _were_?”

Annie cranes her neck to get a better look at the pictures, even if they’re upside down. “N’aww, you were so cute!” she exclaims, wobbling excitedly back and forth on the table.

“He really was,” the Captain agrees, plucking Peter off his chair to sit down on it with the boy in his lap. “Such a happy kid, he was. Always smiling.” Porthos is certainly smiling right now, because the alternative would be crying, and he already did that this morning. “I was but a lowly temporary help when he came here,” the Captain tells his captive audience, “and I had quite nonsensical plans for my future. I was actually studying to be a _lawyer_ \- can you imagine that?”

Annie shakes her curly head. “Lawyers are _evil_.”

“Precisely,” the Captain drawls.

Porthos carefully leafs through the photo-album once more, his heart beating resoundingly inside his chest. The Captain always told him he was a happy little boy, and here’s the evidence, a little faded maybe, but undisputable nevertheless.

“So, did you stay here because of Porthos?” Teddy asks, forthright as ever.

“I did,” the Captain confirms. Porthos looks up from the pictures to stare at him. “You see, I’d been looking for something worthwhile to do with my time,” the Captain continues, pretending to be oblivious to it. “And here it was, literally laughing me in the face.” He turns his head, smiles at Porthos. “How was I supposed to ignore that?”


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos gets home late that night. Peter, being a horrible tattle-tale, had spread the news of his Mom’s birthday through the whole house, resulting in a sea of hugs to wade through before Porthos could make his escape out the front door. He’s still feeling a little shaken, but in a good way - raw and vulnerable, yes, but somehow warm, too. All he needs is a little bit of love and care tonight, and he’ll be fine; he’s sure of that.

He takes the elevator up towards the penthouse, leans back against the upholstered wall and closes his eyes ... takes a deep breath. The photo album the Captain gave to him is secure in the breast pocket of his jacket, right above his heart. He can’t wait to show it to his boys. Porthos bites his lip, takes another deep breath. Athos will have told Aramis by now, and in a way Porthos dreads yet another pair of sympathetic eyes. But then again all those hugs from his family and the kids really helped. Aramis knowing won’t hurt him - quite the contrary. So Porthos drops his shoulders, and relaxes as best he can. Knowing that his Mom would _want_ him to be happy also helps a lot.

The elevator reaches its destination and stops, makes him feel weightless for a moment. The rumbling sound when it opens welcomes him home just as much as the big white apartment door with its brass handle. He has spent so many years with Athos in this house - in their apartment. It was always the two of them. Always. No matter what. And now there’s Aramis, too. Porthos smiles. He’s a lucky bastard, that much is for sure.

He turns the key in the lock and pushes it open, and then Porthos finally realizes something his nose and stomach have been trying to alert him to for quite some time. Something is baking - or was. Something sweet. So he doesn’t bother taking off his jacket and shoes before he rounds the corner to the living area, but takes a few hasty strides into the apartment. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his roommates not to wreck the kitchen in his absence … no, it’s precisely that. He finds Aramis and Athos in front of the stove, their demeanour that of two puppies, caught gnawing on their owner’s favourite pair of shoes.

“What is goin’ on?” Porthos asks them, his heart-ache almost forgotten in the face of … everything. The kitchen is a mess. There are bowls and ingredients everywhere; Aramis’ hair is a wild mop of anxiousness, speckled with flour; Athos looks both flushed and oddly guilty. There are three absolutely perfect honey cakes nestling among the wreckage.

“We wanted to clean up before you got home,” Aramis says tragically, and then he advances on Porthos, throws himself upon his chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good, kitten,” Porthos murmurs, holding him tight for a long moment. Aramis feels warm and familiar in his arms, and Porthos buries his nose in his hair - sneezes when he breathes in flour.

Athos clears his throat. “Aramis, you are getting honey on his jacket.”

Armis pulls back as if Porthos was a living flame. “Oh bollocks!”

Porthos laughs and catches his hands before he can step out of range. “Bollocks?” he repeats, twinkling at Athos. “I gather that your baking experience wasn’t all successful?” Athos shrugs and Porthos turns his attention on Aramis, inspects his hands, which are indeed somewhat sticky; he lifts them to his mouth - licks honey off Aramis’ fingertips. “You are very sweet.”

Aramis blushes rosily, and looks at Porthos through his lashes. “You haven’t even tasted the cakes yet.”

“I’ve tasted you,” Porthos argues, brushing kisses to both Aramis’ palms. “Cakes are bound to be perfect.”

“They were certainly made with a lot of your favourite ingredient,” Athos drawls from the sidelines. He steps closer to them and presses into Porthos’ right, kisses his cheek.

“Yeah, honey’s always good,” Porthos sighs happily.

Athos huffs. “I was not referring to that.”

He sounds both fond and decidedly sly, and Porthos cranes his neck to blink down at him in confusion. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Love,” Athos replies simply, his expression very earnest beneath the softly mocking grin.

Porthos has to close his eyes for a moment. “You know I had planned not to cry again today.”

“Well, I certainly will not apologize,” Athos says resolutely. “Do you want to take off your jacket and your shoes now and let us serve you dinner?”

Porthos opens his eyes at that, fairly alarmed. “You didn’t actually cook, did you?”

“No, I ordered,” Athos soothes him. “Go and wash your hands, Aramis.”

Aramis smiles at Porthos and gives him another kiss, and then does as he is asked. Athos helps Porthos out of his jacket while he’s in the bathroom, takes it from him and wipes the honey stains off its back. “So were the cakes his or your idea?” Porthos asks him, taking off his shoes.

“It was a joined effort,” Athos replies vaguely, hanging Porthos’ jacket in its designated place. “I hope you had a nice day.”

Porthos puts on his slippers and turns towards him, tilts his head. “My mornin’ was a little grim, but it got better.”

“Yes?” Athos says, a reluctant smile in his eyes, and Porthos nods, reaches out and pulls him in.

“Much better.” They hold each other for a moment, not saying anything. Then Aramis emerges from the bathroom and joins them, attaching himself to Porthos’ hip. Porthos almost feels inclined to giggle. “You’re very clingy today.”

“You love it,” Athos says in a decisive tone of voice. “Come on now: dinner.”

So Porthos allows himself to be escorted to the sofa, where Athos and Aramis serve him warm sake and fresh sushi until he’s ready to burst.

“That was _good_ ,” Porthos sighs, sinking back against the cushions. “When can I have the cakes?”

Aramis grins and reaches out to pat his belly. “Aren’t you too full?”

“Never for cake,” Athos informs him sagely, and Porthos nods, grabs Aramis’ wrist and pulls him into his lap.

“What he said.” Aramis comes willingly, puts his arm around Porthos’ shoulders and leans into him, soft as - well, a kitten. Porthos kisses his cheek, his neck, and his earlobe, all the while looking back at Athos, who is watching them with an indulgent smile. “What?”

“Aramis wanted to ask you something,” Athos says tentatively. His words make Aramis tense, ever so slightly.

“What is it, kitten?” Porthos asks him, placing another well-aimed kiss just below Aramis’ right ear. He can both hear and feel Aramis swallow convulsively. “Just let it tumble out, darlin’,” he coaxes, lifting a hand to stroke over his tangled hair. “You got me all curious now.”

“I - I just wanted to ask if it would be okay if I got your Mom some flowers once the weather is nicer,” Aramis rushes to say then, sounding pained. “I would - I would really like to meet her.”

Porthos sits very still for a heartbeat or two - a heartbeat he is very aware of. Both his own and Aramis’. Then he submits Aramis to a crushing embrace. “God, you’re the sweetest, you know that?”

“You’re okay with it?” Aramis asks anxiously, and Porthos hugs him still tighter.

“Of course I am.”

He’s looking at Athos again, his eyes revealingly wet, and Athos reaches out a hand to him, cups his cheek. “We are going to get her the biggest bouquet -”

“Aw, no need to bribe her,” Porthos interrupts him with a watery grin. “She knows everything about you two already - you’ve got her approval with or without flowers, don’t you worry.”

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [THIS](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/post/138791639444/still-thinking-about-bunnies-i-would-love-to-see) plot bunny, and [THIS](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/post/138716024379/hey-so-i-tried-to-send-you-a-bunny-the-other) one, which is not quite what was asked for, but might just hop around a second time later in the series


End file.
